


Little Angel

by DasMervin, MrsHyde (DasMervin)



Series: The Writing on the Wall [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Assertive Castiel, Awesome Sam, Aww, Bad Sex, Begging, Bitchy Dean, Biting, Blow Jobs, Cas doesn't know it's bad sex, Come Swallowing, Cute, Dean Gets What's Coming To Him, Deepthroating, Do Not Want, Drunk Sex, Emotional Constipation, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Family Feels, Hangover, Headcanon, Homophobic Language, Human Castiel, Intercrural Sex, Internalized Homophobia, Lube, M/M, Making Out, Naked Cuddling, Oblivious Dean, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overheard Sex, Poor Sam, Post-Coital Cuddling, Reunion Sex, Screaming Orgasm, Slash, Sloppy Blow Job, Teasing, Thank You Sex, but seriously it's the worst sex ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:31:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/DasMervin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/MrsHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the long stint away from home in “Wheel in the Sky,” Dean and Cas have their reunion, and Dean decides to make it special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad Man

_June 27, 2020_

Dean Winchester was drunk.

Actually, that was an understatement. Merely “drunk” did not even _begin_ to cover the state he was in—he was _wasted_. But that was good. Being merely drunk would mean he still was not ready to go upstairs and do what he was gonna to do, and that _wouldn’t_ do. So now that he was good and plastered, he could.

He just had to get up, was all. And it wasn’t that he _couldn’t_ , he was just getting ready. Yes. He was getting ready to be _awesome_. Had to gear up to that. Not that he really wanted to do what he was gonna do. But the whole point of being awesome was doing something for someone else that you didn’t wanna, ‘cause they would like it. And dammit, _nobody_ got away with calling Dean Winchester not awesome, not even himself.

But just because he was gonna be awesome didn’t mean there was a certain amount of—apprehension, yeah, that was a good word for it, one of those ten-dollar things Sammy was always throwing around, that made him sound like a douchebag. Dean was _apprehensive_ , yes. But he just kept reminding himself of last night—and that morning. The whole reason he was like this in the first place, and the whole reason he was gonna charge up those stairs in just a second and…do what he was gonna do…to Cas.

* * *

It seemed that every time there was a lull in their job, a peak very quickly followed and cut their downtime way too short. Dean had come to terms with what that was a long time ago. Didn’t mean he couldn’t think about how much it sucked when every goddamn monster just decided to wake up and start killing things all at once, making him and his brother stay out on the road for _months_ at a time.

Yesterday had been the first time in _five fuckin’ months_ that he and Sam had gone to Bobby’s to actually rest up and relax instead of popping in to do some research or grab a book or hide out in a safe haven before dashing out again to go lay waste to the latest monster they’d uncovered. Truth be told, he’d couldn’t remember the last time he’d been more relieved to stump into Bobby’s place just to sit down and have a beer and order dinner and _not_ think about the next hunt. Sam and Dean both agreed that it was time for a short vacation. And, oddly enough, the Mark had seemed to concede; there was no itch, and another beast didn’t suddenly appear on the radar. Well, how _generous_ of it.

It had been so nice to just sit down and relax. He’d just had a couple of beers, dozed a little on a couch, argued with Sam over who was the _real_ man of the hour on that last hunt (that spirit did _not_ have Dean pinned down, Dean was just holding it off to give Sam time to take it down, _so there_ ), and had then taken care of his guns and knives before putting them away—glad to do that for a change instead of cleaning them just to pull them out immediately afterwards again and shoot something else.

But then Sam had fallen asleep on the couch downstairs and Bobby had taken a book down to the basement, leaving Dean free to go upstairs—where Cas had been waiting.

As much as he hated to admit it, he had…missed the feathery little punk. He’d _seen_ him every time he and Sam had dropped in for a couple of hours, and he’d gotten info and monster stats from him over the phone from time to time, and he’d even gotten in a few gropes here and there (and that one occasion where they’d gotten a little…crazy), but it wasn’t the same. They were always on business, always rushed, always focused on work. He never got to just… _be_ with him. It was ridiculous and made him feel like the biggest pussy ever, but he _liked_ being with Cas. Hell, he even liked just watching Cas run around doing all of Bobby’s housework, because even after six years it was still friggin’ hilarious to see Amelia Bedelia running around with huge armfuls of laundry. He—dammit, he _missed_ Cas. He missed that scrawny ex-angel and was very glad to see him when he was off duty. And he made damn sure that Cas knew it that night, too. After that initial…well, attack they’d had, followed by a bit of a doze, he’d woken back up and thrown down all of his best moves until Cas was nothing but a quivering, clinging wreck who could barely remember what day it was.

Of course…Cas had apparently missed him, too. And that was another thing Dean hated to admit—that blowjobs that were so goddamn good had to come from a _dude_.

He’d had to be very careful this morning to make sure that he wasn’t sauntering through the house with the “I got laid” strut, because he didn’t need to be doing that in front of Sam and Bobby. No, as far as they were concerned, he was just relaxed and glad to be on break. They didn’t need to know that eight hours ago he’d come in Cas’s mouth so fucking hard he’d felt his eardrums pop, or that when Cas had gone down on him again a few hours later he’d actually seen _stars_. Dean almost regretted explaining to Cas that sometimes it was okay to tease and draw things out, because sweet Christ, he’d created a monster.

 _Almost_ regretted it, anyway. No way he ever actually would, because that had been _awesome_.

Dean had woken up in his favorite way that morning—all slow and easy, warm and comfortable and with nowhere he needed to be, wakefulness gradually tugging him out of his sex-induced sleep. First thing he’d been aware of was how _rested_ he felt. Second thing he’d been aware of was the warm breath puffing evenly against his throat where Cas’s face was mashed against his shoulder as he slept.

He hadn’t gotten up immediately—he’d known he should, of course, just get Cas off of him and go downstairs, but…well, he hadn’t felt like it. Instead, he’d pulled back a little, his arm still draped around Cas, and had just…looked at him. Man, even asleep he still managed to look smug and satisfied about last night. Screw him, anyway. Because no one would know, he’d not felt stupid (well, not too much) for slowly moving his free hand across Cas’s back and around to his front until his hand was resting on Cas’s ribs, where he could feel that steady thump of his heartbeat.

Cas was weird.

Dean didn’t stay that way for long. Once he felt awake enough to get out of bed, he carefully pulled his arm out from under the pillow and Cas’s head, making sure he didn’t wake him up, and rolled out from under the blankets and staggered to his feet, picking up his clothes off the floor as he went (how the hell had his shirt wound up over _there_?). After he’d peeped out into the hallway to make sure the coast was clear, he’d quietly shut the door behind him and gone into the bathroom to take a quick shower and scrub away all traces of his hoorah with Cas before trudging down the stairs.

He’d discovered that he was the only one up and had decided to use that to his advantage—Bobby wasn’t there to tell him to get his ass out of his precious kitchen or that it was _Cas’s_ job to cook breakfast, so _he_ could cook breakfast for once. Contrary to popular belief, Dean actually liked cooking, and wasn’t half bad at it—especially breakfast—so he was gonna, dammit. Sam had been the next to wake up—probably because of Dean’s banging around on the stove, seeing as he was crashed on the couch. But it hadn’t taken long for the rest of the house to wake up after that. Dean had jutted his chin at Bobby’s sour glare when he’d stumped up from the basement. Bobby hadn’t said anything, though, just waited for Sam to get out of the downstairs bathroom, seeing as Cas was in the upstairs one so it was officially occupied until, oh, the next decade.

He and Sam had finished serving everything up when Cas finally came drifting down the stairs, his damp hair a mess and his face making it pretty clear he was on another planet at the moment, so Dean didn’t even bother saying good morning to him and just sat down to eat breakfast. It had been easy to ignore Cas while he ate, which was fortunate—Awkward Moment over there spent the whole damn meal staring off into space. Well, staring off into space when he _wasn’t_ giving Dean drippy looks across the table. Dean ignored that, too. So did everyone else. Good.

Once they were done, Dean had kicked Cas under the table to snap him out of it so he’d get busy and clean up. Bobby was now at his desk, reading the funny papers. Sam had gone upstairs to take a shower, seeing as the hot water tank had had some time to recover after Cas that morning. Dean hadn’t gotten up yet, just sat watching Cas as he wiped the last dish dry and put it away, and then smirked in amusement as he started needlessly straightening up the rest of the kitchen, his motions sure yet very leisurely, and Dean could tell he was still in la-la land, and probably would be all day. Dean kicked a foot up on the chair across from him under the table, watching Cas absently scratch at his chin as he floated around the kitchen. He really was ridiculous; was Cas ever going to act like a normal person after they did their thing, or was he always going to wander around all day like—like this? Not that Dean minded knowing that he ruled, and everything; he wouldn’t have such big a problem with it if it weren’t for the fact that he did it in front of other people. Other people being Bobby and Sam.

Dean paused, narrowing his eyes a little. He’d thought Cas was scratching at his chin—razor burn or something—but he’d just realized he’d been wrong. He was _rubbing_ it. Now that he thought back on it, he’d been rubbing it occasionally during breakfast, too, kind of working his jaw funny while he chewed—

Oh. Yeah. Right.

Dean felt like an idiot. And now Dean was even more irritated that Cas floated around in his sappy little bubble every time they did stuff, because he didn’t pay any attention to making sure he wasn’t being so obvious. Why was he telling the whole world he had a sore jaw? Dean stared at the tabletop, ignoring the tiny bit of dull heat that spread across the back of his neck.

To hell with bad puns: there really wasn’t any other way to describe what Cas had done last night other than _mind-blowing_. It had been just…well, _awesome_. Dean knew very well how much he’d exerted himself; why the hell did Cas feel the need to remind him of it? Dean didn’t like thinking about their escapades outside of the bedroom, and definitely not with Sam and Bobby around, but Cas was still working his jaw right there in the middle of the room, his every move telling the world, “Yeah, I blew Dean Winchester so damn hard last night, ‘cause I’m the man.” Well, he could cut that out. Just because that actually _wa_ s such fantastic head—and that was sayin’ something, given how much he’d had in the past—didn’t give Cas the right to be smug about it.

Of course…the worst (or was it best?) part was Dean knew deep down that it wasn’t all self-satisfaction. Cas would do it again in a heartbeat, sore jaw or no, just…just because Dean enjoyed it. Dean kept his eyes on the table still, that familiar discomfort settling in every time he thought about how…friggin’ _devoted_ that stupid bastard was. He did absolutely nothing in bed strictly for himself, the twerp. Dean knew he wasn’t selfish in that department either, but hell if Cas didn’t make him feel like it sometimes. Dean could admit that was probably starting to be part of why he always liked to do Cas first when they took turns—Cas was getting to be a pretty tough act to follow. The douche.

This was stupid. He knew he satisfied Cas, because he always made it a point to satisfy anyone he was with and he…worked especially hard for Cas because…because it was Cas. But goddammit if Cas didn’t make him feel like he wasn’t doing enough, especially when he made it obvious he’d just worked himself to the point of pain, no matter how minor, just to please him. Dean glanced up again to see Cas folding up the towel he’d been using to wipe down the counters, and before he could go back to staring at the table Cas turned his head and looked at him, really looked, like he always did on the morning after, and Dean couldn’t do anything but stare back until the sound of a door opening upstairs snapped him out of it.

Dean loudly cleared his throat and laced his hands behind his head as he leaned back in his chair, his back popping as he stared pointedly at the wall. They were on vacation. He’d…he’d just have to make sure he…paid him back. He had the time and the opportunity. He’d been considering that lube that heated up when you used it. Maybe he could sneak out and buy it, so long as he kept it well-hidden in the slit he’d made in Cas’s mattress for that very thing. Yeah, he could do that…and he supposed could let Cas have a turn on top; he never let Cas do his thing between his own thighs ‘cause he hated getting that shit all over him like that, but Dean sure enjoyed doing it himself and Cas always let him, so he figured Cas would like to take his turn too for a change of pace—or hell, maybe he could just go ahead and _really_ return the favor and—

He nearly fell out of his chair.

_What the FUCK?!_

He did not just think that. He seriously did _not_ just think that. Except he did. _No_ , he didn’t. He refused to believe that he just idly pondered blowing Cas.

_Oh, Jesus, he had._

_Goddammit, Cas!_ he thought furiously. _Bad enough you rope me into all your gay shit! But now you’ve got me thinking about sucking dick!_

That was _not_ happening. Cas may think that Dean was a Slurpee machine, but Dean was not laboring under a similar delusion. Hell, just the thought was freaking him out! Why had he even had that thought?! No. He was not going to think that _ever again_. He was going to just do what he wanted to do because he didn’t have to—have to do _that_ to make Cas happy, this wasn’t a fucking _equal trade_ here. Cas _liked_ to do that shit, but Dean did _not_! Cas would get only what Dean _wanted_ to give and he’d _like_ it, goddammit! He—

Dean jumped when a cabinet loudly squeaked, and he looked wildly up in time to see Cas bending over and digging under the sink before straightening again and coming back with a bottle and a bucket; mopping day. He stuck the bucket under the sink faucet, pouring a shot of bleach into the running water. Dean stared as he bent over again ( _bastard_ ), putting the jug away, and once the bucket was full he grabbed it and his mop and started towards the back so he could clean the bathroom—and as he passed he _looked_ at Dean, and there it was, the adoration and devotion and—

_Son of a bitch…_

Every time. Every _single_ time. Dean told himself he was not going _that_ far with Cas, because he just _wasn’t_ , and every time that fucktard went and _looked_ at him and reminded him that all he wanted was to please him and only him in every way he could and Dean’s heart would clench and—

 _Son of a_ bitch!

* * *

Dean finally managed to cap the whiskey bottle after the third try. Why the hell did they make those caps so hard to put on? Why couldn’t the spiral thingy in the lid twist _both_ ways so he wouldn’t sit there for five minutes twisting left when he should’ve twisted right?

He could mostly remember how he’d spent the day. See, once he’d had that thought, he couldn’t make it go away. All he could do was try to talk himself into it. While he’d been sober, he’d tried his best. He wanted to make Cas happy. Let him know that he cared and all that stupid girly shit. But he couldn’t do it. He had not been able to work himself up to it. He’d just freaked the fuck out every time he’d even thought about doing it, and had eventually just given up. But over dinner, he’d looked up from his Chinese takeout, seen Cas’s big shiny blue eyes gazing soppily at him over his moo goo gai pan— _goddammit_ —and then he’d spotted the beer in his hand.

And that was when he realized he could try _that_.

Of course—why hadn’t he considered it before? How many times had he and Cas… gone a bit further with a little help from good ol’ Johnny Walker? Well, by God, he wanted to give Cas a decent thank-you for working himself so hard just for him, and if he needed to get a little buzzed to do it, fine.

Okay, so it took a little more than “a little buzzed”. But who cared, he was there now.

Finally struggling to his feet, he swayed and gripped the table, standing still with his eyes closed until the room stopped rocking. Once he got his bearings, he set his jaw and opened his eyes again.

 _Gonna go upstairs. I’m gonna do it. Gonna blow Cas. Right now_.

Yes. Right now.

Weaving as he walked, it took him a little longer than normal to get to the stairs because his legs wanted to take him on the scenic route. _Fuck you, legs, you’re just holdin’ me up, ‘cause you’re not gonna stop me_. His legs could go to hell, he was gonna do something awesome to Cas ‘cause that was his fucking angel and goddammit, he wanted to make him happy. He wanted to make that runt sing “Battle Hymn of the Republic” tonight, and he was _gonna_. Gripping the banister tightly, he staggered up the stairs, doing his best to keep from tipping backwards and ruining all of his plans by accident—you know, by breaking his neck or something.

Dean finally made it up the stairs, sagging against the wall and resting for a second, and he squinted at the door that belonged to Cas’s room. Sucking in a breath, he swerved his way down the hall, aiming for the door as best he could in his current state. He nearly smacked his face against the wood when he tripped over his own feet, but somehow managed to grab the doorknob and turn it as he stumbled, and instead the door swung open and he burst into Cas’s room.

Aww, fuck, why was it so damn dark in here? The darkness didn’t get any better when he fumbled the door closed behind him. Shit—how the hell was he supposed to get to Cas like this?

“Cas,” he slurred. Fuck. The bastard was ignoring him. Well, fine. Shaking his head a little, he just started lurching across the room, ‘cause he’d hit the bed eventually.

And he was right. About halfway there, his feet got tangled up on the edge of the rug, which sent him into a wild dance across the remaining distance until his knees collided painfully with Cas’s bed and he fell face-first into it, landing across Cas’s legs with a grunt. He growled when he heard a startled yelp and felt Cas flailing under him, and it served him right for not helping him out or turning on a light. Dean squinted when suddenly there _was_ a light, and he pushed himself up and finally saw a blurry Cas, sitting up in bed and blinking rapidly against the brightness of the bedside lamp.

“Dean? What—?” Cas’s voice was rougher than usual.

“Were you _asleep_?” Dean demanded. “What the hell?”

Cas stared blankly at him, opening his mouth to reply, but Dean didn’t care for excuses. “Fuck it,” he informed him. “We’re gonna do this.”

“Do _what_ —” Cas started, but he didn’t get very far because Dean grabbed at the bed and heaved himself up into it, and then he charged the sound of Cas’s voice, aiming for his mouth. He’d shut him up good. Well, would have, had he not fucking _missed_ , his lips mashing against his chin. Oh well, worked fine. Cas grunted when Dean’s weight hit him and he fell backwards, and Dean finally located Cas’s mouth and kissed him, not bothering with any finesse because he was too drunk for that shit. Cas could deal, because he was about to spoil him more than usual.

Cas’s hands were on his shoulders, and he was trying to kiss back. Dean pulled back, groping for the edge of the blanket that had gotten bunched up around Cas’s waist, trying to get his fingers under it.

“Come on—take those off,” he grumbled against Cas’s lips, trying to find the waistband of Cas’s shorts—but all he found was a bony naked hip. “Why don’t you wear any fuckin’ _clothes_?”

“I—” But Cas didn’t get to finish because Dean was sloppily kissing him again. Dean wasn’t interested in hearing Cas tell him all about the benefits of nudism. He was just interested in getting these blankets off and getting him up. And taking his own shoes off, too—he hated shoes in bed.

He heaved himself away from Cas, yanking his legs up into bed and trying to reach his shoelaces. Unfortunately, his fingers were almost numb at this point as he struggled to get the double knots undone—didn’t matter how much he cussed ‘em, the bitches would _not_ come undone. For once he was grateful when Cas’s fingers joined his own, helping him get the laces untied. When he finally got his boots kicked off, he pushed Cas backwards again, and once he landed on the pillows Dean fell on top of him, trying to find the spots on Cas’s neck he knew got him going as he shoved the blankets down.

“Dean,” Cas gasped as Dean bit down where his shoulder met his neck. “I—I don’t—”

Dean pulled back again, glaring blearily at him. “What—you not in the mood, honey?” he mocked. “You got a headache or on the rag or somethin’?”

“No, I just don’t under—”

“You wanna do this or not?” Dean demanded.

“I—of course I—” Cas stuttered.

“Then shut up and let’s do it,” Dean growled, and Cas grunted when Dean’s mouth collided with his own again, and he sucked in a breath when Dean finally found Cas’s dick. Still pretty limp, of course, but Dean could take care of _that_. He reached down between his thighs and squeezed Cas’s balls and then started to jack him; he thought about trying to time it with the strokes of his tongue on against Cas’s throat, but that required concentration and he was running low on that kind of thing. He supposed he should start thinking about how to go about doing his Good Deed, use the time between now and go time to figure out how to actually do things, but that was multitasking and he couldn’t do that at the moment. He’d figure it out when he got down there.

Cas took his sweet time getting turned on, Dean sourly noticed. What the fuck was his problem, anyway? Oh, sure, he was always hot and ready when it was _his_ idea, but no, have to draw things out when Dean wanted to do his thing. No, he fucking _went to sleep_ when Dean wanted to do his thing. Well, fuck him, Dean was gonna show _him_.

It got better when Cas woke up a bit more, he guessed. Started getting into it—but he needed to quit trying to pet him and shit, he was busy. Except Cas always got off on petting Dean, right—okay, fine, he could pet him, anything to get Cas to hurry and get it up. Except he did hurry, and now he was hard and ready, and even drunk Dean felt a flutter of dread in his stomach. Jesus. He was drunk, and he was gonna do this, but now that he was here… _God_ , he didn’t want to. He didn’t know what to do, it was gonna be totally weird and really fuckin’ gross, and he was gonna be _sucking cock_ …but he was gonna do it. He was _going_ to go down on Cas. _Right now_.

Okay, so the kiss-down thing was always nice, and he liked it when Cas did it, he could start there. He dragged his mouth across Cas’s cheek, trying to enjoy the soft noises Cas was making now as he moved down his neck, and some stupid, chick-flick, not-drunk part of him wanted to make it last, but the half that didn’t, the half that was hammered and was just telling him to do it and get it over with—yeah, that half won out. So the trip down Cas’s chest took a very short amount of time and soon he was on the chosen battlefield facing his enemy, and so he selected his weapon and charged.

When he seized Cas’s dick, he heard him sigh, his hips twitching a little. But when Dean squeezed his eyes shut and just…just _did it_ , just stuck that goddamn cock in his mouth and started sucking, he didn’t make much progress because there was a strangled shout above him and flailing limbs and he heard a choked, “ _D-Dean—!_ ” so he stopped, irritated, and glared at Cas, who was sitting up again, his eyes wild, his mouth hanging open. Even in his annoyance Dean knew that look and took a tiny moment to be satisfied that he’d just managed to blow Cas’s mind already.

But that didn’t last long. “I can’t concentrate if you _talk_ ,” Dean said flatly, swinging up a hand to find Cas’s flat chest and push him roughly down on his back. “Shut up.” And without waiting for any kind of response from Cas, he went at it again.

Fuck. He’d been right—this _was_ weird. And _really_ gross. He had a _dick_ in his mouth. And just to make things worse, he was at a serious disadvantage, here, ‘cause he didn’t know what to _do_ , which was all kinds of fucked up. He was the _king_ of going down on the ladies. He _loved_ eating pussy. But this was all wrong. What the hell was he supposed to do besides suck it, huh? Move his head up and down? Yeah, ‘cause that didn’t look stupid.

Then again, he figured nobody else in here would notice the looking stupid part. Cas was shaking beneath him, and Dean could see out of the corners of his eyes that Cas’s hands were clawing at the sheets, and he could hear him groaning and gasping and making all kinds of noise—clearly, Dean was awesome even when he wasn’t. How many people could make that claim? Only one, thank you, and that was him. But dammit, he came up here to give Cas a blowjob, so he needed to pay attention. _How does Cas do it?_ he asked himself, thinking on last night. Well, he knew he really liked _this_ , so he tried it with Cas, managing to get his tongue un-stuck from under Cas’s prick (and Dean now had a new respect for how Cas managed to use his tongue and be so fucking awesome about it while doing this, because he couldn’t figure out how he did it at all now) and licked hard at the tip as he sucked. He grunted in surprise when Cas let out a loud whimper and his hips bucked upwards reflexively, and Dean barely managed to jerk back in time to keep from gagging. He lifted his head, glowering and clenching his jaw in irritation.

“Goddammit, Cas,” he growled. “You tryin’ to choke me?”

“I—I’m s-sorry—” Cas managed.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbled. “And hold still.”

If Cas was good at anything, it was following orders. Dean saw his hands fist into the sheets, and when he went back to business and sucked hard at the end again, Cas trembled and uttered a long, drawn-out moan, but he sure as fuck didn’t move. Good. Cas would get left hanging if he started that shit up again; just ‘cause Dean was sucking his cock didn’t mean he was gonna let him full-on fuck his mouth like that.

 _Dammit_ , this was weird. He knew he was drooling, but he was too wasted to really care. He was more concerned with the fact that he drooled and Cas didn’t. Cas never _had_ , actually. That was not fair. It was also not fair that none of his usual techniques would do any good here. There was no clit to flick with his tongue—there was just this big shiny head and that stupid drippy _hole_ —

Well, okay, maybe it was still a reasonable approximation, and some of his old moves were still good, seeing how Cas just blurted out Dean’s name in a girly little gasp. Still didn’t change the fact that this was a cock and not a clam.

What the fuck was he supposed to do with his hands? See, if Cas was a chick, he’d be using one to finger her with the other free to stretch up and fondle some nice tits, or he’d be stroking up and down a nice curvy waist, or if she was into it, he’d maybe slip a finger in through the back door, but _that shit was not happening_. He wasn’t _that_ wasted. But still—hands. Where to put them? Well, he decided to give his mouth a rest and just tug him for a few. That’d keep them busy—and Cas too. Dean discovered that his drooling did have a bit of an advantage; Cas was nice and slicked up for a good jerk. He reached up and seized Cas’s hip with his other hand, mostly to stabilize himself. The room kept wobbling every time he lifted his head, which made him feel all pukey—the fact that he was sucking dick didn’t help. Glancing up at Cas, he was disgruntled to see he was being watched. Cas was half-propped up on his pillows and staring down at him, wide-eyed and flushed, his jaw unhinged as he panted.

Dean just glared back. This was just pissing him off; his mouth felt weird and his jaw was already getting stiff after just a minute or two, but Cas could stretch a blowjob out for what felt like fucking _hours_. “How the fuck do you stay on my dick as long as you do?” Dean demanded.

“I—”

“Shut _up_ , I told you,” Dean grunted, and was about to get back to sucking when he realized hell, _that_ was what he was supposed to do with his hands. Cas always worked him like that while blowing him, so there was no reason he shouldn’t. Keeping his hand in motion, he took a breath and just started sucking the head again, reminding himself to watch his teeth but not bothering to try to move his tongue over it with any finesse.

Finesse apparently wasn’t required. He could hear Cas groaning his name again, along with half-formed encouragements that he could keep to himself, thank you. Just ‘cause Dean wasn’t sure what he was doing didn’t mean he wanted _instructions_.

That was something else that was seriously bugging him. He’d kissed Cas enough times after a good blowjob, so it wasn’t like he’d never tasted spunk in his life, but every time that had been his own—but now it was different, just driving it home that he was _tasting somebody else’s jungle juice_. It wasn’t necessarily that it tasted _bad_ —except how it did—but just that it was freaking him out. Why did Cas taste like this, anyway? Why didn’t he taste more—well, more like _Dean_ did? Cas was way saltier; Dean would have to tell him to cut back on his sodium, because he was human now and he was gonna give himself a heart attack. And besides, he wouldn’t _have_ to taste it so much if Cas wasn’t _leaking_ all over the goddamn place, the sorry bitch—and Dean knew he was doing it on purpose, just to piss him off.

Determined to get the tip of his tongue away from it, and trying not to be all half-hearted about it but _dammit_ , his jaw was sore already and his tongue wasn’t far behind, Dean tried going a little deeper. Unfortunately, that turned out to be a mistake; goddammit, he’d just gagged himself. Pulling off quickly, he squeezed his eyes shut and coughed, struggling to get himself under control while gripping Cas’s dick. He had barely heard the moan from up above him when he’d nearly choked, because the combination of trying to shove a cock down his throat and the increasing dizziness he felt was _not_ good on his stomach. No, he was not going to puke. That would ruin the mood. And what a mood it was.

Okay. No more of that. He’d wanted to put in an effort, but this was just nasty and he wanted it to be over. After giving Cas the stinkeye once more, he just tightened his grip and started fiercely jerking him and sucked hard at the end, trying to keep his licks deliberately and precise but failing miserably because his tongue _hurt_ , fuckitall. Combination of sucking and licking was horrible. But who cared—Cas certainly didn’t. He was gonna rip his sheets if he kept knotting his hands in ‘em like that, and then Bobby would kill him. Which at the moment, Dean thought was a grand idea. _Rip away, jackhole_ , he grumbled to himself. Dean supposed all the noise Cas was making was nice—last time he’d sounded that desperate and weepy was his first time with him so many years ago. Oh, and hadn’t _that_ been such a wonderful experience. Cas was such a pathetic son of a bitch. Why the fuck did Dean put up with him?

There was yet another groan and another dribble of gross salty shit on his tongue, and Dean growled when he felt a hand in his hair. Cas just shuddered, though, and before Dean could get Cas’s prick out of his mouth he heard him panting, “D-Dean, I—I—”

“You close?” Dean demanded, shaking his head like a dog to get Cas’s hand off of him.

“ _Yes_ ,” Cas gasped as his hand fell away.

“Good.” His jaw hurt and his tongue was raw and he’d been about to stop anyway. Grabbing the bed beside Cas with his free hand, he pulled himself up next to him and just started pumping his fist hard and fast, wishing he could wipe his mouth because God knew he probably looked absolutely disgusting with drool mixed in with what little Cas-gravy he’d gotten on him, and that thought just made him want to puke again, but Cas was flailing around and had flung his arms around him and had buried his face against his neck, so his increasingly-noisy sobby sounds were muffled as he thrust his hips against Dean’s fingers. Jesus—would he just come already? He’d said he was close.

“ _Dean—Dean—!_ ” Cas wailed, and Dean grunted when his arms constricted around him like a fucking python. _Ow_ —had he just bitten him?! Bastard. Well, it wasn’t like he could tell him to cut that shit out because it wouldn’t even register; Cas was thrashing helplessly against Dean as he splutted everywhere, grody as always—but the point was that it went everywhere it _usually_ went. There was _no fucking way_ Dean was gonna let him come in his mouth. He’d made himself a list of things to do for when he came up here—but he’d also had a list of things he would _not_ to do, and that one was right at the top.

 _Finally_ he finished. Why the fuck did Cas always come so fucking much? It was fucking disgusting. And he wanted to get it the fuck off of him. Shit, had he—son of a bitch, it was all over his clothes. Cas was lucky he wasn’t wearing a logo tee, or he would’ve taken it out of his scrawny ass. Dean flopped his hand around on a dry spot he found on his jeans, but even drunk he knew the effort was useless. _Tissues_ , he remembered suddenly, the clear thought penetrating his increasingly foggy brain. There were tissues beside the bed. Right. He forgot.

He was just coherent enough to know that he was awfully close to the edge of the bed, so instead of rolling onto his back, he sort of flopped onto his stomach. Okay—he made it that far, his face smushed into the pillow. That was good—now he just had to lie here for a minute until the room stopped moving again. It finally did—mostly, anyway—and so Dean rallied himself and tried to push himself onto his other side.

He made it halfway; trying to go any further made the room sway alarmingly, and he had to stop and hold on to the bedframe for dear life until it stopped. Keeping his eyes squeezed shut, he dragged an arm that felt like it weight a hundred pounds up and reached for the night table. He brushed the edge of what he was pretty sure was the box with the tips of his fingers.

 _Come on, you bitch_ , he fumed. It was taunting him, just out of reach, but he had it, it was moving—and it toppled off the table and out of sight.

 _Fuck_.

His arm dropped with a thud, his knuckles banging painfully on the floorboards. He couldn’t just lie here like this, not here, still dressed and with Cas’s jizz all over his clothes, goddammit. He had to get up and get cleaned up. He stared at the floor, fighting off the fuzziness that was trying to creep in on the edges of his vision, took a deep breath and tried to concentrate and gathered himself to sit up—

But then had to seize the bed when the room gave another sudden lurch, and oh, shit, no, he was _not_ going to be sick, just settle down—

Wait—that wasn’t the room. It was just the mattress. Shit—Cas was moving, and he was all up in Dean’s business, every skinny _naked_ inch of him pressed up against Dean’s back. One arm had wrapped around him, and yeah, there he went, his hand snaking under his shirt to press right up against his chest like Mola Ram. Great—there was his other one up in his hair now, and then lips were on his neck, what the _fuck_ did he think he was doing?

Dean knew he _meant_ to very clearly and concisely tell Cas to “get the fuck off me,” but when he tried to move his numb lips all he heard was a garbled noise that sounded like “gufumumeemee” and he gave up. His eyes wouldn’t focus, and the edges of the room were going dark and indistinct. He felt something that might have been Cas rubbing his face all over his neck, and he thought that was his tongue on his ear, and there was a soft blow of air as Cas murmured his name, but then he didn’t feel anything anymore as the darkness behind his eyes rushed in to cover him and the room went mercifully black.

* * *

Dean did not open his eyes immediately upon waking.

It was a weird awakening, for one. He was just suddenly aware that he was awake, that he was in bed, and that he was fully-clothed. The only problem with that was he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there.

He knew he wasn’t in a hotel. He did remember he and his brother declaring it vacation time, so he knew they weren’t still on the road, at least—which meant they were at Bobby’s. And if he was at Bobby’s, then he also knew he was upstairs, because there was only one thing the warm weight behind him could be. Well, the warm, _annoying_ weight. He was _spooning_ with him, the little bastard, his hips pressed right up against his ass, his chest against his back, his limp fingers on his stomach, and he _knew_ Dean hated that, but no, he was doing it anyway, his breath puffing against the back of Dean’s neck.

What had he _done_ last night?

That was the first order of business. He had to figure that out. He did not like not knowing—it made him horribly uneasy, and not just because he could feel that Cas was _nakedly_ spooning with him. Memory loss was a bad sign any time, just because of his job. He just…didn’t like it. So he tried to sit up, slowly opening his eyes—

Million-watt spotlights shone directly into his eyeballs, causing his brain to explode into a catastrophic confetti of pain. Trying to sit up caused his stomach to run away and join the circus to be a tumbler, only it wasn’t very good at it and just wound up seizing up on itself after rolling around.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he moaned, squeezing his eyes shut again and curling in on himself, barely feeling Cas stirring behind him, and finally he realized just what he’d done last night.

He’d _drank_ , that’s what he’d done. And now he had the mother of all hangovers.

Actually, “mother of all hangovers” was not accurate. This was, without a doubt, the second-worst hangover he’d ever had in his life. The only one that topped it was the one he’d had when he’d been twenty-two—the last time he’d really gotten _drunk_ like this, actually. Only he’d woken up knowing why he’d gotten drunk that time. That’d been the morning after Sammy’d left for Stanford. He’d had a good reason to get hammered and wallow in drunken misery. What the hell would make him go and get pig-drunk this time?

He couldn’t think of anything. But really, he couldn’t think of anything except the excruciating pain in his skull that felt like sharp knifes were trying to poke their way out of the top of his head and made the back of his eyeballs feel like they were on fire. That did nothing to calm his roiling stomach—nor did Cas’s arm around his middle, which tightened, and he didn’t know if it was on purpose or because he was using Dean as a brace to sit up, but he needed to stop that and he needed to _stop it now_. He needed to stop moving in general, because every movement made Dean’s stomach twist again, and every creak the bed made was right in his ear and shot into his brain and made those poking knives poke harder.

“Dean?” Cas screamed at him. Okay, Dean knew he didn’t screamed, but it felt like he was screaming his concern.

“ _Off_ —get off—you—” Dean rasped, pressing his arm against his eyes to block out that horrible harsh light and smush the pain away. Cas moved away, and that didn’t help because now the bed felt like it was thrashing around like Linda Blair had just walked into the room as Cas shifted away from him, and Dean though he got out of bed but wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything except trying his hardest not to vomit all over the floor. He didn’t want to do that—he didn’t want to do that because it was gross and because Cas would see it and to puke in front of Cas would be very undignified.

Why the fuck had he _done_ this to himself?! What—there was nothing he could think of that would make him do this. Their last hunt had been a success. They were on vacation. Life was pretty all right. He strained himself, fighting against another wave of agony to just…remember something, _anything_ of last night…

Stairs. He remembered coming up the stairs. Had he nearly fallen backwards on them? He might have. Okay. He’d come upstairs. And then what, he’d just fallen into bed with Cas and passed out? That still didn’t explain the drunk part, but at least it explained how he’d gotten here. He’d…what had…

One sliver of memory suddenly jumped into his head. Just one.

It wasn’t so much a memory as much as it was a connection. He was just lying there, struggling not to chunk it, but nothing was helping him—not the light he couldn’t seem to entirely block out, not the pain in his head, not every amplified sound, not every little movement, not the vile taste in his mouth. And then, that last one—the last one had done it.

Nasty taste in his mouth.

Mouth. In his mouth.

He remembered.

Oh no.

No. Oh no. _Shit. Balls. Fuck._

_SONOFABITCH._

He’d—oh _Jesus_ , last night he’d—he’d—

Remembering what had happened last night—or rather, remembering just enough to know what he’d done—did nothing to help his situation. If anything, it made it worse. His stomach roiled harder as splintered panic and denial exploded everywhere inside him.

Sucked it. He’d sucked it last night. He’d gotten drunk and sucked Cas’s—

The details were vague. He hardly remembered any of it. All he remembered was that he’d _done it_ , and unfortunately, that was enough.

Flinging an arm out, he tried to get out of the bed and instead just oozed out off the mattress, his torso hitting the ground first and the rest of his body following. He barely noticed.

_Blowjob, Winchester. You gave Cas a blowjob._

He staggered to his feet, the light from the window unbearable, and he kept his hand in front of his face as he lurched across the room, his gorge rising again with every movement, the pain in his head just getting worse every single time his brain insisted on repeating that he’d _gone down on a dude last night._

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!_

Dean’s hand froze on the doorknob.

He couldn’t remember the details. He hadn’t—he’d…he’d _sucked cock_ , but—oh no.

_Where had Cas come?!_

Fucking hell, he couldn’t remember! Did—sweet Christ, he hadn’t _come in his mouth_ , had he? Just the thought—the _idea_ of having a mouthful of—of—

As his stomach churned, his mind kept working, and when he wrenched the door open, another twist of his gut spurred the next thought.

 _What if I—what if it’s still_ in _there?!_

That did it. His stumbling walk turned into a stumbling run, and he nearly tripped over his feet but stayed upright out of sheer panic and did his best to ignore the agony each of his thunderous footsteps caused his head because he had to get to the bathroom, he was three seconds away from—

He made it in time. He even managed to kick the door shut before he collapsed in front of the toilet, clinging desperately to the sides as the combination of the nausea, the horrible pain in his head, and the thought that he might not have just sucked Cas’s dick but also _swallowed_ last night was too much and his stomach finally put in its resignation.

Dean heaved for what felt like forever, his stomach clenching painfully every time, and by the time he was done his throat and his nose were burning horribly. But even after that, he couldn’t help but feel vaguely relieved. He stared blearily at the disaster in the toilet, fumbling up to flush it down, and thought weakly, _Well. At least it’s not in there anymore_.

For a while, he didn’t move; instead, he just sagged against the cool porcelain, leaning his pounding head against the hard surface, and only when the taste in his mouth became too nasty to tolerate anymore and was starting to make him want to gag yet again did he make the great effort to drag himself to his feet and head for the sink. Toothbrush. He needed to brush his teeth. And he needed to never stop.

His fingers wrapped tightly around the edge of the sink as he brushed with way too much toothpaste, keeping his eyes squeezed shut while he did it. He didn’t care he probably used half the tube on his brush—the other members of the house took second place to his need to scrub all traces of Cas’s Magic Feather out of his mouth. He didn’t so much spit into the sink as much as he just opened his mouth and let the foam and drool fall out each time, struggling to ignore the way that even the sound of the brushstrokes reverberated painfully in his head.

After he’d brushed his teeth so much his gums were dully aching, he rinsed properly and did the one thing he really didn’t want to do, but he did it anyway because he was gonna have to do it eventually and it was best to just…do it now. So, he sucked in a shaky breath, raised his head a little, and cracked his heavy eyelids open.

The first thing he saw were his squinting, bloodshot eyes. Then he saw his mussed up hair. And then he saw the evidence that no, _it_ had never been in there in the first place.

“Aw, fuck,” he muttered, keeping one eye open as he slowly looked down his front.

He had no idea if Cas had set the spooge world record last night or if Dean had just decided to roll around in it when he was done, because it was smeared _all over_ his shirt, his jeans, and—goddammit, now that he was aware of it he could feel a nasty crusted scale on his _hand_ now, and—

Fumbling as wildly as he could for the washcloth by the faucet of the sink and twisting the knobs to hot, he hoped with everything he had that what he could feel dried all over his chin was just _drool_.

He did his best not to think about the other option. He just scrubbed at his face with hot water and soap and then scrubbed his arms up to the elbows before he leaned against the sink, grinding the heels of his hands against his eyes.

He didn’t swallow. Good. That was the one good thing in his life right now. Bad enough he’d put Cas’s dick in his mouth. To gargle with Enochian gravy would have been way too much.

 _Or maybe you did, and you just spit it up all over yourself when you were done_.

Dean jerked his head to the side and regretted the action, because that motion and that _thought_ combined to bring him right back down to his knees in front of the toilet again.

He didn’t puke, though. He got close, feeling all hot and shaky, his mouth wet and his stomach churning, but he kept it down. Once was enough. _No_. He did _not_ let Cas jizz in his mouth. He didn’t care that he didn’t remember if he had or not—he just…knew. He didn’t. So there.

Dean also knew that he could not go downstairs like this. Of all the times to wear a dark shirt and dark jeans…

Crap. That meant going back to Cas’s room. The little shit was probably still prancing around in the buff like a demented wood sprite, too. God _damn_ it. Would he _ever_ catch a break?

He shook out three aspirin from the bottle in the medicine cabinet and tossed them down before slowly opening the door, peeking out into the hallway to make sure nobody was around. No noise, and empty. Taking a breath, he crept out as stealthily as he could while suffering from a hangover from hell and snuck back to Cas’s room, sliding inside and shutting the door behind him.

Wonder of wonders—Cas had _pants_ on. He could practically hear the Hallelujah chorus in the background (and it made his head hurt). Cas was staring at him, and even through the muzzy haze he was drifting through, he could see he was concerned and confused, as usual. He’d worry about that in a second.

“Do you—you have any of my clothes up here?” Dean whispered, unable to manage anything much louder than that without it sounding like screaming in his head.

Cas opened his mouth to reply, but then snapped it shut and just nodded, amazingly picking up on the fact that Dean’s low voice was a sign he should keep quiet. He padded across the room past him, and Dean watched through the slits of his eyelids, irritated that he apparently wasn’t too hungover to look at Cas’s butt when he bent over to pull open the bottom drawer on his dresser, and reached out and took the clothes from Cas when he pulled out a new shirt and jeans.

While he wasn’t too hungover to eye Cas a little, he was too hungover to care about stripping in front of him. He was also far too eager to get out of these _nasty_ clothes. Unfortunately, he was also too hungover to get undressed standing up, so he rather unwillingly flumped down on the bed, gingerly peeling out of the incriminating outfit he was currently in before slowly pulling on the set Cas had given him. He didn’t button his jeans yet, though, and instead just sat there for a bit, his eyes closed, his head throbbing, and his empty stomach still occasionally doing a backflip just to taunt him.

“Dean? Are you all right?”

Cas didn’t “scream” it this time. His rough whisper wasn’t much comfort anyway, though, because that was the last thing Dean wanted to hear, that “are you okay” line Cas loved to do on him, positively dripping with concern. No, he wasn’t fucking all right, last night he had a dick in his mouth. But he knew that the “dripping with concern” tone was also poised on the edge of a cliff, ready to throw itself off if Dean said negatory on that, good buddy—meaning Cas would just go live under the sink in a fit of depression if he told him how he really was, so he just vaguely nodded before replying.

“I’m hungover,” he said raspily. “I’m—it’ll…wear off. I’m…I’m gonna go…sleep. Some more. Downstairs. I’m…fine. Yeah.”

He was about to stand up and do the agonizing search for his boots when he heard movement around him; he cracked one eye open when he felt said boots being pressed into his hands. Stupid angel, always somehow knowing what he wanted. And speaking of…

“Don’t—don’t wash my clothes,” Dean suddenly blurted, trying to inject force into his voice but just sounding pained. “Leave them here—no, actually…just put them away somewhere in here. I’ll take care of them myself.” _And by “take care of them” I mean “burn the fucking things and bury the ashes six miles away_ ”.

“Yes, Dean.”

Cas’s voice was confused now, although still concerned, but it had lessened, so Dean knew he could leave and Cas wouldn’t fret about the house all day. So, after sticking his feet into his boots but not bothering to tie them, he heaved himself painfully to his feet, wobbling unsteadily, and opened his eyes as much as he could again.

There was Cas, right in front of him, looking like he wanted to help Dean across the room but knowing better than to do it. Dean was about to start the slow and painful march across the room which would lead into the even slower and more painful march down the stairs so he could get out of the house to his car when he _really_ looked at Cas and saw how big and shiny and bright Cas’s eyes were this morning, and the fact that he looked about two seconds away from bursting into song about oh, this _was_ a beautiful morning.

It was revolting.

Dean grunted and turned away, because being around Cas’s dazzle this morning was not good for his health.

He was right—it _was_ a slow and painful march, made all the worse because he was so tense, positive that any moment Bobby or Sam were gonna pop out of nowhere and be all loud and bright and cheery and worst of all _knowing_. However, they did not; he didn’t know where they were, and he didn’t care so long as they were not around him. He didn’t want to hear them, and most of all, he didn’t want to see them and he didn’t want them to see him.

He thought he was gonna pass out when he swung open the door and the sudden blast of sunlight pounded against his eyes like railroad spikes in his skull. But no, no stupid sun was gonna get the better of Dean Winchester, so after a moment to marshal his forces, he staggered out into the backyard. He made it to his car without incident, wincing at the creak the door made as he opened it and moaning loudly at the slam it made when he closed it. He dropped the seat back— _slowly_ —and then pulled the coat he’d grabbed on his way out—the one he’d left slung over the back of his chair at the kitchen table last night—over his head and shut his eyes, heaving a pained sigh.

Stupid. It’d been stupid. The whole damn thing had been stupid. And fucking _disgusting_. But…dammit. He’d…fuck, the whole point of this had been to—to somehow… _repay_ Cas for an awesome time, right? And even in his hungover agony he’d been able to tell that Cas was going to be skipping around and wrapped up in a cocoon of “Dean Winchester Is Awesome” all day (and he was very glad he wouldn’t have to see it). Well, fine. Stupid it may have been, it’d served its purpose. He’d…made the idiot happy. And _paid him back_. Dean had _no reason_ to feel…insufficient or selfish anymore. Done. They were square.

More importantly, he had no reason to feel like he had to do shit like that again for the rest of his life. And _that_ was fine by him.


	2. I Can't Take It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is usually discreet—but not this time.

_June 27, 2020_

Sam jolted awake.

It was an ingrained reaction; yeah, he and Dean slept heavy and hard whenever they could get it, but if anything went bump in the night, they were awake and ready to take it on.

But that it had happened at all was disturbing, because they were at Bobby’s house. There shouldn’t be anything going bump here.

Sam sat up. Yeah, still on the couch in the back room. The house was quiet and still, and it was still dark; the moon was shining thought the window bright enough for him to see the ancient, sixties-throwback walk clock, which read 1:30.

He frowned. Okay, so they were safe, secure at home base, no work to be had—what the hell had woken him up, then? It hadn’t been one of his nightmares; those had slowed over the years to the point that if he had one, he would have damn sure remembered it. He listened, but all he could hear were the usual creaks and sighs of the old place, nothing out of the ordinary. Finally, his wariness giving way to annoyance at waking up for no reason, he started to lie back down, wiggling around and trying to get situated on the couch. It really was too small for him, but he’d been tired and had just come up here instead of waiting for the rest of the party to break up so he could have the longer one downstairs—

Wait. He froze where he was, still half-sitting up, and strained his ears. Okay, he was not imagining things, he could definitely hear something, something like groaning, like something was in _pain_ —

“—tryin’ to choke me?”

What? Was that—that was Dean’s voice, all muffled and slurred-sounding, but it was him—what the hell was he talking about? Was he talking to Cas? It had to be Cas, ’cause that was definitely him, that long, loud moan, and—

_OH MY GOD—!_

Sam flew to his feet in horror and shot out of the room, thundering down the hallway to the stairs, and oh, _shit_ , he could _hear_ them in there, loud and clear as he passed the door, and fuck fuck _fuck_ , he could hear Cas _sobbing his brother’s name_ , and GOD _DAMMIT_ —

He took the stairs two at a time, anything to get away from _that_. Jesus _Christ_ , of all the things he’d ever seen or heard from his brother, that had to be the _worst_ —that sorry son of a _bitch_ —

“What flew up your ass?”

Sam had made it to the mercifully silent downstairs hallway (although his mind was a bitch and he kept imagining he could still _hear_ it, shit), and he looked up to find Bobby sitting at his library desk with a bottle of Wild Turkey and a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ , regarding Sam with a raised eyebrow.

Running a shaking hand through his sleep-mussed hair, he said forcefully, “Do _not_ go up there.”

Bobby looked to the side, and then back at Sam. “No kidding, genius,” he said, drawing out the last word, his tone appropriate for a brain-damage victim, which immediately pissed Sam off even worse. “Which begs the question of what you were doin’ up there.”

“I was _sleeping_ up there!” Sam said, outraged.

Bobby made a rude noise. “Boy, ain’t nobody sleepin’ up there when Dean gets that look—didn’t you see him givin’ Cas the eye all over dinner?”

Sam growled in his throat. “No—I block that out, thank you,” he snarled.

Bobby rolled his eyes. “That’s just a fancy way of saying that you don’t pay attention, so it sneaks up on you when Dean wants to get frisky, and you wind up hearing somethin’ you don’t want to. And here I thought you were the smart one,” he said dryly.

“Eat me,” Sam snarled, marching angrily past him.

“You want the couch or the cot?” Bobby called to his back.

“The _car_ ,” Sam replied stiffly, and Bobby just snorted at him as he stormed outside, slamming the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam wasn’t the only one who heard. Go see what Bobby thought of all this in the GTBT aside "[Tenant Trouble](http://archiveofourown.org/works/956334/chapters/2002161)."


	3. Little Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas gives Dean a big thank you for the night before.

The hood of the Impala shut with a loud bang, and Dean snatched up the rag sitting the old crate beside him, wiping the grease off his fingers. He thought she’d been running a little rough; well, it was only one sparkplug he’d had to change out. It could’ve been worse.

After he got his hands, he tossed the rag back down with a soft flump, popping his back as he stretched. He eyed the empty plate nearby, leftover from his late dinner, then huffed irritably and grabbed it, grudgingly taking it inside to dump it in the sink so Cas wouldn’t—

Involuntarily, he twitched, and he couldn’t help but stomp inside Bobby’s house now, switching off the flood light as he opened the door.

Some small, sensible part of him knew this was stupid. That sensible part had been annoyingly loud and bitchy today, doing nothing but nag, nag, nag while he’d cruised around town all afternoon when he’d finally decided his hangover was dulled enough that he could drive without crashing into a fire hydrant. It still hadn’t shut up, either. _You do this every time_ , it fussed. _After everything you already do with that guy, what the hell is wrong with you? Why can’t you just man up and stop running away from the scene of the crime whenever you do something new with Cas?_ it complained.

He hated that the only real answer he had was “ _because_ ”, but that annoying inner monologue could just take that response and like it. It didn’t, of course, but fuck it anyway.

Dean resisted the urge to throw his plate in the sink, and not just because it would probably break if he did—he had a sneaking suspicion Sam and Bobby were already asleep, seeing as it was midnight, and a peek into the living room told him he was at least half-right. Sam was on the couch, his back to the room and his face pressed up against the cushions. He always took the couch, man, especially when Dean wanted it so he could avoid going upstairs, the little bitch.

After he quietly set his dirty plate in the empty basin, he trudged over to the stairs, ascending and swinging right for once, going straight for the bathroom. He shut himself inside, twisting the knobs on the sink and waiting impatiently for the water to heat up so he could really wash the grease off of his hands. And while he waited, he couldn’t help it—he didn’t want to look, but at the same time he hated how furtive he was as he did. He looked up and stared himself in the eye in the mirror.

He looked like he always looked. But he knew. He _knew_ what he’d been doing last night. At the thought, his eyes automatically zeroed in on his own mouth, and he quickly looked away, jerking his head to the side, but that was a mistake. Grinding his teeth, he hissed a little at the dull throb that sharp motion caused, and so he shrugged off his jacket, draping it on the toilet, and tugged the neck of his shirt down a little, tilting his head to the side.

Fuck. It was getting worse. At this point, he was surprised Cas hadn’t broken the skin last night. The bruise was livid and purple, and the worst part about it was that there was no possible way to mistake it for anything other than what it was. That stupid fucking angel _bit_ him. And Dean couldn’t even remember when he’d done it.

Grumpily, he jerked his shirt back into place and stuck his hands under the now-hot flow of water. He scrubbed at his skin with the soap, heaving a sigh through his nose.

What he wouldn’t give for a normal sex life again. He was…kind of, weirdly…content, he supposed, just… _with_ Cas. He knew that, and he wouldn’t… _change_ anything. He didn’t want to stop…being with Cas. But goddammit, he was tired of having spaz attacks twice a year because Cas kept making him do increasingly gay shit—to the point that sometimes he worried he was going to wake up one morning _without_ the impulse to go check out girls on his next road trip. Bad enough that he never got any pussy anymore—if he couldn’t even _look_ , he might as well just shoot himself now.

Growling to himself, he shut off the water and grabbed his jacket, using it to dry his hands and trudging to the door, shutting off the light and beginning the long walk down the hall to face the music. He was gonna have to go in there now and _look_ at Cas, and know that less than twenty-four hours ago, he had been…paying him lip-service. But though he hated that internal monologue that had been nagging him all day, he did know it was right. Hiding would not fix anything, so it was better to just…go in and get it over with.

If Cas so much as brought it up at all, whether with words or even a _look_ , though, he was gonna deck him and stuff him in the trunk of the Impala. Just see if he wouldn’t.

He scratched the back of his neck as he dragged his feet, grimacing when he saw the thin strip of light underneath Cas’s door. Of course he’d choose tonight to break his usual routine and stay up past eleven. Why the hell did Cas plan his life out in all the ways that best screwed Dean over? Sighing hugely, he just reached forward and grabbed the doorknob, refusing to hesitate or pause, and swung the door open.

And…no Cas. The bed was empty, and a glance to the side revealed he wasn’t at the desk either. Frowning, Dean closed the door and promptly about jumped a mile when he saw Cas right next to him, staring up at him with bright intensity.

Dean was opening his mouth to ask just what the hell Cas was doing sitting behind the door but never got a chance, because one minute he was glaring indignantly at the punk and the next he was being kissed. Rather insistently. And pushed backwards against the door. _Very_ insistently.

For a second, Dean had no idea what was going on. His mind was completely blank as Cas pressed up against him, pinning him against the door, and Cas _hmmed_ against his mouth and Dean twitched when Cas’s hips ground against his own, and that was what finally snapped him out of it and he put two and two together.

 _Why, that little—he’s been_ lying in wait _for me!_ he thought furiously, but he couldn’t voice his outrage because Cas’s roaming hands skimmed down his sides and around and Dean finally reached up to try and push Cas away when Cas grabbed his ass with _both_ hands. Dean gripped Cas’s shoulders, trying to steel himself to wrangle him back and demand to know just what the hell he was on about, crouching behind the door and waiting for him like a big feathery spider, but his words died in his throat when he felt a hand sliding around his hip and across the front of his pants and Cas’s fingers firmly squeezed his crotch, and if there was any doubt in his mind that Cas had _plans_ for him tonight, that pretty much took care of it.

“Mmph—Cas—” he managed, trying to talk around Cas’s persistent tongue.

Cas finally broke his kiss, which was what Dean wanted, but of course Cas had to mess that up for him. He hadn’t pulled back, and his lips were still touching Dean’s, just barely. “Dean,” he breathed, and Dean felt him say his name as much as he heard it, and he sounded fucking _orgasmic_ about it, and Dean could not stop the lance of fire that shot down his spine, and he just _knew_ that little bastard knew that happened, knew how much that got him going, and was—holy shit, was Cas trying to _seduce_ him?! That was _not_ allowed, that was _so_ not going to happen, _Dean_ did the seducing around here—

Cas’s mouth suddenly vanished. So did his face. Dean blinked, and—oh fuck.

Cas was on his knees.

Cas had just pinned him against a door and now had dropped down to his knees in front of him. He was gonna—

Oh, fuck.

Jesus Christ, he wasn’t wasting any time, his fingers were already unbuttoning his jeans, and by the time Dean found his voice again, his zipper was halfway down. “Cas—” he blurted out, his hands descending on his shoulders and squeezing, because this was too much, this was _way too much_ , he knew exactly why Cas was doing this and he couldn’t take it, he could _not_ take thank-you head like some kind of _exchange_ for—for last night—

And then Cas looked up at him, his movements never stopping, and the words just died in Dean’s throat because Cas was _looking_ at him, looking up at him from _that angle_ , looking at him like _this_ , and it all just rushed in at once, Cas on his knees in front of him, on his knees with that adoring, reverent look, his fingers curling into the waistband of his shorts, wetting his lips a little with his tongue, and Dean couldn’t remember why he was going to protest, heat already spreading all through his chest and gut and groin—

So he didn’t say anything, just groaned softly as Cas opened his jeans and tugged them down around his upper thighs along with his shorts and then took him in hand, and Dean could feel his moist breath ghosting across his dick as he worked him, and all he could do was will himself to get harder faster because there was only one thing he wanted right now and it was taking way too long to get there.

Dean stared down at Cas the whole time, his mouth open and his breath coming in quick pants, and Cas just stared back, the motions of his hand tight yet leisurely, and he felt Cas’s free hand lightly caress the bare skin of his ass. Dean tensed and sucked in a breath as Cas’s fingers curled around the base of his cock and he shifted on his knees, because he knew it was coming, he was going to get what he wanted—

Except he didn’t. He watched, unable to move or talk or think as Cas just _nuzzled_ him, closing his eyes as he ran the tip of his nose along the length of his prick, brushing his lips against his flesh. Cas’s fingers dug into his hip, pressing him harder against the wall as he actually _kissed_ his dick, starting right where his fingers were wrapped low and tight around him and then he started moving up, and when he gently kissed the tip, barely brushing him with his lips, Dean’s hips tried and failed to jerk against Cas’s mouth, and he suddenly why realized Cas was holding him so tight with his other hand. _You bastard._ He trembled when the tip of Cas’s tongue lightly licked up his length with just enough pressure to drive him insane.

Dean shuddered when Cas stayed where he was, lapping gently at the head of his cock over and over again, slowly and deliberately, all while gazing up at him, and Dean desperately wanted to tell him to stop _teasing_ him like this, because that hot, sucking mouth was _right there_ , but he wasn’t _doing_ anything, and they’d barely gotten started and he was already painfully hard. He nearly moaned in frustration when Cas suddenly rested his smooth cheek against Dean’s hip, just _breathing_ against him now, his left hand still keeping him still pressed against the door, his right moving slowly.

“Dean,” he murmured. _Jesus Christ, Cas!_ What the fuck was he trying to do?! Make his head explode?! He—

And then suddenly that wet heat was surrounding his cock, and Dean’s eyes closed of their own accord and everything was just fantastic.

The pace was easy; his sucking was gentle. By all rights, this should’ve been no different than all the other times Cas had done it to him. Except it _was_ different, because he’d just jumped him and now he was pinning Dean against a door and was on his knees in front of him. This was—this was making him lose his mind. He ran his hands up Cas’s shoulders and neck until he’d gotten his fingers wound into Cas’s hair, savoring the way he could feel the motions of Cas’s head under his hands. Dean couldn’t help his moan when Cas suddenly swallowed him down, all the way, and just _sat there_ , his tongue on his balls and his throat working around him while the hands on his hips kept Dean still, and when he pulled away it was only long enough to catch his breath and then it was back to the slow and steady rhythm again, and Dean unconsciously pushed against the back of Cas’s head to try and get him to speed up because his hips sure as hell weren’t moving. Where the fuck did Cas get the idea that he was allowed to be in charge, anyway?

Cas refused to let Dean set the pace, though. He was just sucking lightly at the end, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut and had to bite his lip to keep from whimpering when his tongue stroked the wet slit over and over again, using more pressure each time, and when Cas took him deep again Dean looked down, watching as Cas took in all of him, and when he pulled back his face turned up and there were those big blue eyes and Dean could tell that all Cas wanted to do was satisfy him tonight, and Dean threw his head back with a loud and almost painful thump against the door because what he was feeling was agonizing enough; he couldn’t take visuals at the same time. He had to do something to ease him back, or else he was gonna have to start thinking about naked grandpas dancing the Lambada.

The hands on his hips suddenly vanished. Fingers curled around the very base his cock while a hand slipped between his thighs, massaging gently, but Cas started to slow, the motions of his head and mouth getting shallower and shallower until he was hardly moving. That was simply unacceptable. Free from Cas’s restraining hands, Dean had involuntarily started rocking his hips, faster and harder as Cas got slower and gentler. His fingers tightened in Cas’s hair; by now, he was barely moving at all, and now _Dean_ was moving, sliding his cock in and out of that slippery wet mouth. Cas did nothing to stop him, just kept doing what he was doing, and what he was doing was wonderfully awesome.

The part of him that still fussed about all this—and it was upsettingly small and quiet these days—hated that he knew anything from _experience_ where Cas was concerned. But he knew things all the same, and right now he knew that he could fuck Cas’s mouth as hard and deep as he wanted and Cas would just sit there and take it and smile when he was done. Dean restrained himself, though, because he wasn’t stupid—he knew a lot of that didn’t have anything to do with what Cas actually liked, but was just because Cas wouldn’t say “balls” if he had a mouthful where Dean was concerned. But self-control was _hard_ , dammit—Cas kept his movements timed with Dean’s, pushing forward against his thrusts and driving him to go faster and harder, but he didn’t _want_ to do that (but _oh_ , how he _did_ ), and he wasn’t gonna, because Cas was _not_ his goddamned _fuck-toy_!

Dean just kept his head tilted back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his shoulders and back pressed up against the door as he concentrated everything he had on keeping cool and not just letting loose and just reaming Cas’s throat. And not just because he wanted to go easy on Cas, but also because he was trying to hold off—he couldn’t just let go and go nuts, he wasn’t about to let Cas sneak up on him and go down on him and render him jelly-legged and exhausted and unable to do anything for him in return—Cas should know better, Dean never went first for that very fucking reason—

Dean gasped a little in shock when Cas’s hands suddenly seized his hips again in a punishing grip, and he grunted when he got shoved back against the door with a thump. Glancing down, he saw Cas was looking up at him again, his fingers digging into his flesh, his mouth pulling back and off of Dean’s cock with a pop, and as he stared up at him, Dean could see it—there was that _look_ , like it always was when he sucked him off, and it sent a rill of apprehensive anticipation down his spine because his intentions were clear: _Let’s get serious._

All Dean could do was moan when Cas suddenly swallowed him, and _kept_ swallowing, taking him deep every single time he pushed forward, and Dean couldn’t _move_ , because Cas had him pinned against the door, and the strokes of his mouth were hard and deliberate and every time he pulled back he sucked him so fucking _hard_ but moved so fucking _slow_ , and Dean trembled when he felt the curl of his tongue, and he breathed Cas’s name when Cas _hmmed_ softly around his dick, and fuck, _fuck_ , things were—no, he couldn’t, _he could not do that_ , Cas was gonna—

“C-Cas,” he gasped, tugging at his hair, his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth clenched. “Cas— _hey_ —”

Relief and agitation didn’t usually go together, but that’s what he felt all the same when Cas _finally_ pulled away, panting, his thumbs stroking his hipbones gently, and he couldn’t help but shiver when Cas replied, “Yes, Dean?” all breathless and _innocent_ , and the way he sighed the words against his cock…Dean counted five before he finally looked down.

Fuck—that bastard was doing that on purpose, gently rubbing his cheek against Dean’s aching prick as he looked up at him, all shiny-eyed and _smug_ , and for a second all Dean could do was stare at how Cas’s lips were all pink and wet and full, and the way his dick was slicked up with Cas’s spit. He finally coughed and got his throat working again. “Come here,” he managed, his voice only a little shaky, he was pleased to hear, and he reached down and grabbed Cas’s shirt, tugging him up to his feet.

He knew some people hated it, but he was not some people. Once he got Cas back on level with him he kissed him, thrusting his tongue forward to meet Cas’s, and kissing Cas while knowing that mere seconds ago he’d been sucking his dick never failed to turn him on. He let Cas lean on him and press him against the wood of a door for a few seconds before he gripped his upper arms and turned it around, pinning _him_ in response.

Cas just sighed happily as Dean ground against him, both of his hands sliding down Cas’s back to grab his ass and pull him forward, and Dean was content to just sit here and kiss him for a few—if anything, it gave him time to calm down a tad, which he desperately needed. Cas didn’t need to know just how bad he’d gotten him—he didn’t need to be getting _ideas_. However, Cas was pretty content to let Dean do what he was doing as well, and he could feel Cas’s fingers move upwards from where they’d been squeezing his ass to tug restlessly at the hem of his shirt. Okay, now that was a pretty decent idea if he had to have one, so after he pulled back and liberated Cas of his own t-shirt, he let Cas pull his off as well, and then it was back to business. It was much better business now, in Dean’s opinion, because of all the hot skin he could feel now pressed up against his own.

Dean was about to start nibbling at all of Cas’s favorite spots when he realized Cas had gone tense in his arms and was fussing at him, pushing back. Frowning, Dean pulled away, and his frown deepened when he saw Cas was staring at his neck and looking troubled.

“What?” Dean demanded as Cas reached up hesitantly and pressed his fingers against where his neck met his shoulder, and he involuntarily winced when he—

Oh. _Goddammit, Cas._

Cas met his eyes again, and Dean grimaced at how _pitiful_ he looked. “Dean, I—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—” he began.

“Forget it, Cas,” Dean said gruffly. “It happens. Now come on.” And with that, Dean tugged him sharply across the room, marching them both to the bed after irritably hitching his shorts and his jeans back up. He did not want to talk about the bitemark on his neck that he knew would be there for at least a week. He didn’t want to talk about it because he didn’t want Cas to sit in his own pathetic guilt over biting him, but more importantly because he did _not_ want to think about just how he’d gotten it. That was a mood-killer all the way.

The bedsprings creaked loudly when Cas’s butt landed in bed where Dean tossed him. Little punk wanted to play rough, Dean would happily oblige him. Just because he didn’t typically go for that didn’t mean he didn’t know how. After he kicked out of his shoes and, after a moment of deliberation, shucked his jeans as well so Cas wasn’t the only one in just shorts, he joined him, pressing against Cas’s sternum and forcing him to lay back as his other hand sank into the mattress beside Cas. Dean jumped when Cas’s hands immediately flew up and went for the waistband of his shorts, and Dean slapped them away, glaring at him. What the _hell_ , Cas?

Dean ignored his natural inclination to mash Cas down into the mattress and pin his wrists above his head and _make_ him calm his skinny ass down. But Dean knew that really wouldn’t work all that well—oh, he’d be held down, all right, but, well…Copy-Cas. If Dean got rough, then Cas would assumed that it was time for _everybody_ to get rough and the next thing you know, Dean would be getting his ass grabbed and his neck chewed on and with the bruise he already had that just wasn’t an option. As such, he was gonna have to put a leash on Cas the _other_ way.

He leaned down on Cas until he’d gotten a knee between Cas’s thighs and let his weight keep him safely pinned beneath him. Dean skimmed his hands up until his fingers curled around Cas’s neck and up into his hair, his thumbs stroking over his cheekbones, and he closed his eyes and kissed Cas softly, not even unleashing the tongue on him, and he resisted the urged to snort when he felt Cas stop all that writhing pretty much immediately, his arms wrapping around Dean and drawing him closer to him, practically melting right there. _Sucker_ , Dean smirked to himself. _Getcha every time._ He didn’t say anything, though, just stroked his fingers along Cas’s throat, deliberately sliding his thumbs down to press against both of Cas’s pulse points and enjoying the sigh Cas gave as he tilted his head back in obvious invitation.

Dean saw no reason not to take him up on it, so he nuzzled him, just breathing softly against Cas’s throat before kissing those same spots, but no licking or nibbling, and enjoying the way Cas sighed and the way his thigh rubbed against his hip. Cas’s breathing had evened out already, the fingers of one hand stroking Dean’s hair while his other hand was running up and down Dean’s spine. Cautiously, Dean rasped his tongue right behind Cas’s ear, and when all he did was make a contented _mmm_ , Dean started in earnest, finding every single spot he knew would make Cas twitch, but keeping the pressure light so he wouldn’t attack him. But he didn’t spend too much time there, and rested his fingers in the grooves of Cas’s ribs as he started kissing down his chest, enjoying how still and calm Cas was as he did—Cas went into sex-fits way too damn often.

Dean was irritated with himself when he found himself suddenly tense when he reached Cas’s navel and wanting to get his mouth back up into neutral territory immediately. He knew why, and he still hated thinking about it. So he pulled away, instead grabbing the elastic of Cas’s shorts and tugging them down while he was there, nothing wrong with saving a little time. He crawled back up, settling back down on top of Cas, and was unsurprised when he felt Cas’s hands pushing his own shorts off his hips. Even after all this time, the idiot still assumed that pants off meant sex _on_. Dean was beginning to think he’d never break him of it.

He didn’t bother slapping his hands away, instead just let Cas push them down and then easily kicked out of them, sending them to join Cas’s on the floor. Cas was already groping at his ass, which annoyed Dean, so he rolled them over on their sides and groped him back, the handsy punk. Cas’s grabby fingers moved away quick enough, though, and were now walking up his side, and as Cas pulled him forward by the back of the neck he knew what he’d be doing before he did it—and yep, there he went, the hot little puffs of breath preceding his wet tongue as he kissed his neck, just where and how Dean liked it, and as always, it wasn’t fair that Cas always knew just what to do, wasn’t fair that he was such a good lay, when not only was he not a _real_ lay but still a friggin’ _guy_.

 _Oh, who fucking cares, anyway_ , he thought dimly as Cas licked at the base of his neck.

Really, now that he’d calmed down, Dean almost would’ve been pretty happy to just sit here all night and pet Cas and be petted back. He didn’t even mind they were both naked as jaybirds. But, after Cas’s little stunt against the door, he definitely knew that wasn’t happening. He was still plenty hard when Cas had set to macking on his throat, and was already getting it all the way back up and ready again just with that—and he’d already felt Cas poke him in the side a few times. He knew they both wanted it—so he supposed it was as good a time as any to get at it.

Tugging Cas’s mouth back up to his again for one more nice long kiss, he rolled over until he was hanging off the side of the bed, pawing around in the dim light for the upper-corner of the mattress. He didn’t take him long to find the slit that held his little stash, and he dug around until his fingers closed on the curved sides of the bottle of lube, heavy and full and unopened, that he’d bought this afternoon.

Just remembering that he’d done it at all made him scowl. He’d spent the whole day cruising around town—okay, fine, he was _hiding_ and he knew it—and when he’d made a stop for some beer, he’d just sort of wandered around to kill some time and found himself walking down one of his favorite aisles in any store (well, _used_ to be his favorite aisle). He’d blackly ignored all the condoms he no longer used, some voice in the back of his mind noting that there were so many new kinds, when his steps had stuttered and he’d spotted a familiar bottle that he’d used several times in the past, and every time he’d left satisfied women behind him. KY, liquid, self-heating…

And just like that, it had happened, his brain had piped up, _Cas would love that. Remember?_

He’d stormed off to the beer, because he’d done _enough_ , thank you. Had he or had he not just—done what he’d done last night?! He was paid back already!

So that obviously explained why he’d taken the detour back to that aisle once he’d acquired his booze and snatched one bottle from the shelf while no one was looking and stuffed it under the front seat when he got back to the Impala. He’d snuck it upstairs when he’d gotten back to Bobby’s while Cas had been out getting dinner before retreating to the garage again.

He really did pamper that damn angel way too much, he thought irritably as he heaved himself back onto the bed, facing Cas.

Cas saw it was something new immediately, and as was always the case when Dean brought home a New Thing, he got all interested and excited, which was fine, but he also had to go and give Dean that ridiculously adoring “what did I ever do to deserve you” look, and that wasn’t so fine. Dean was almost told him to cut that out, but he didn’t. Instead, he set the bottle next to him in bed for a moment while he reached for Cas again, pulling him half on top of him and kissing him again, putting more force into it this time. He didn’t let up, either, licking his way into Cas’s mouth and knotting his fingers in his hair, reaching down to give his ass a hard squeeze, making him gasp against his lips.

Getting the bottle open was a nice little challenge—for one, he still had his arms around Cas and so was having to really reach to get both hands on the bottle. And for another, Cas had decided to just make himself at home and had tucked his face up under Dean’s chin and was _nibbling_ spots on his throat while his hands were stroking his stomach, brushing lower and lower each time. By the time he managed to get the thing open and ready to use, Cas’s fingers were sliding between his thighs and _shit_ , he was massaging his balls—

Fumbling around a bit, he freed up one hand to grab Cas’s wrist and make him stop that. Dean was trying to be generous, dammit, and Cas was gonna sit still and take it and _like_ it. Cas got the message and stopped _fondling_ him, thank God, which left Dean free to do what he needed to do. He poured more than was necessary into his hand and worked it between his fingers to get it going. Grimacing a little, he reached down between his own legs and slicked up his thighs, and with a glance noticed that Cas wasn’t paying a bit of attention to what he was doing because he was too busy kissing Dean’s ear. _Well_ , Dean thought with a decidedly devious smirk, _I’ll just take advantage of the distraction._

He rubbed his still-slick fingers together, already feeling it getting warmer from that friction alone, and, without bothering to warn Cas at all, reached down and seized his cock in a tight, wet, _hot_ grip.

Dean was pretty sure Cas would’ve leapt out of bed in surprise had he not been so securely tethered by his nethers ( _Dr. Seuss has nothing on me_ , Dean thought smugly). He enjoyed the way Cas hissed in a breath through his teeth when he jerked him a few times, hard and fast, just to get the new lube working and let him know just how awesome Dean was to him. But he didn’t waste time with just that—Cas was about to find out he was not _just_ awesome to him. He was _totally_ awesome to him.

He swung his free hand down, grabbing at Cas’s hip and deliberately missing—Cas always looked so confused and startled when he slapped his ass, which made him smirk at him. But he didn’t linger, sliding his fingers around until he’d grasped his hip and pulled him fully on top of him, the fingers of his other hand still wrapped tight around Cas’s dick. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes when he saw how Cas got a ridiculously rapturous and hell, _grateful_ look when he realized where Dean was guiding him, and after he got the hint and maneuvered so he could push his cock in between Dean’s clenched thighs, he was curling his arms under Dean to cling to him, because deep down, apparently all angels just really wanted hugs. Very sexy hugs.

His movements weren’t fast or frantic yet, but Dean knew they’d get there—and he could tell from Cas’s shaky, shallow breaths that he definitely gave the new lube a thumbs up. Cas had his face pressed against Dean’s shoulder—the one that _didn’t_ have fucking teeth marks in it—his fingers flexing against Dean’s back every time he thrust forward.

Truth be told, Dean really wasn’t into this way—well, he was, but only when he was the one on the business end, not the one sitting there and taking it. Taking it this way was a mess in places that were uncomfortable to think about and hard to clean up, and he didn’t dig being—well, he didn’t like playing the goddamn woman. And that was pretty much what he was doing, lying back and letting Cas hop in the saddle and take Dean for a ride. The only other time he’d ever let Cas…do it this way was a couple of years ago, when he and Cas had been in that hotel room on their own and for some reason he’d gotten a fever for the flavor of angel. And anyway that time it hadn’t been a matter of _letting_ him do anything—it had just kind of happened without him thinking about it, not like this. It wasn’t _unpleasant_ —he did not object to the rhythmic pressure on his balls, the way the tingly, slippery wetness was getting all spread around, and the way his own prick got rubbed between their stomachs every time Cas moved was pretty great. But even though there was all of that, it didn’t change the fact that Cas was on top of him and rubbing his dick between Dean’s legs, and he still just…felt weird.

Weird—wasn’t that the only possible word in the entire universe to describe them and…whatever the fuck it was they had? He supposed it was.

Dean heard and felt Cas give a soft little moan, and he savored the warmth that spread through him before he found himself being kissed rather forcefully. He gave as good as he got, because there was no way Cas could make out better than he could. He stroked up and down Cas’s back, dragging his fingers down between the cheeks of his ass and back up to his shoulder blades, and not just to make Cas shiver (which he did, much to Dean’s satisfaction), but to make sure his fingers were mostly dry before he grabbed Cas by the hair to make him tilt his head back so he could lick and suck at his pulse points.

It never took too much work on his part to get Cas really going. Doubly so every time Dean did something new with him. He had no idea why Cas found pretty much _everything_ new The Most Amazing Thing Ever and got reduced to a bottle rocket virgin every single time. Dean didn’t really see what the big deal was—they’d done their thing in the shower before, and that was hot and wet, right? The heating stuff was nice and all, but to watch Cas, his mouth open and his eyes squeezed shut as he thrust between his thighs, you’d think Dean was demonstrating the more interesting acts from the _Kama Sutra_ , not just giving him a quick one Oxford-style. Dean vaguely supposed he should be grateful for finding someone who was so damn easy to please.

Sighing a little himself, he pulled Cas closer to his chest, pressing Cas’s face against the unbitten side of his neck, enjoying the attentions he got for the effort and just listening to every small sound Cas made, those tiny groans of pleasure, and he could see one of Cas’s hands was now grasping the pillow next to him, squeezing tightly into a fist with every push forward. Dean didn’t understand it, and probably never would—he’d had screamers, moaners, groaners, and even had an encounter with a woman who literally _howled_ when he hit the jackpot with her, and all of that was sweet music to his ears. He’d always worked hard to get _noise_ , because he _liked_ noise, but…Jesus, Cas was hardly ever loud, but that was just it—he didn’t _need_ to be loud. He just made all those quiet little gasps and sobs and moans, hardly ever really let loose, and pretty much never talked, except to say one word and one word only—and _holy hell_ , there it was, the _only_ thing Cas ever needed to say to get him every time, right there against his pulse, hot and awed: “ _Dean._ ”

It didn’t matter what it was—it was Cas making those sounds, and that was plenty enough to help him get around the general lack of enthusiasm he’d had going into this.

One of Dean’s hands had migrated between them, taking advantage of the still-hot slippery goodness that had gotten pretty much everywhere at this point. He lazily stroked himself with a loose fist; he wasn’t planning to get off yet, but Cas had a bad habit of turning him on. Even though he was letting Cas do his thing first, there was zero reason for him to not at least get a little feel-good in himself. But it wasn’t long before he nearly growled in irritation because he felt grasping fingers joining his own, and dammit, Cas was trying to get a hand on his dick too—couldn’t that bastard see he was trying to be _selfless_ here?!

Before Cas could get a handful, Dean grasped his fingers with his own, entwining them and squeezing tightly and yank his hand back up by his pillow. For safety’s sake, he wrangled his hand into Cas’s other that was already up there by his head—and only then realized that wasn’t safe at all, because he’d just pinned himself but good, and judging by the fire in Cas’s eyes, he _liked_ it that way.

Well, _shit_.

Cas’s grip tightened and he pressed his hands harder against mattress, and he started thrusting in earnest now, leaning his forehead against Dean’s and just _staring_ at him, staring _through_ him; Cas always went Unblinking Angelic Death Stare of Intensity when he got into things like this, which was precisely why Dean always did his best to avoid _letting_ him get into things like this. Yeah, that _look_ of his ignited those fires in all the right places in Dean, but it was still damned unsettling, that stare. It didn’t help that he was the only one Cas ever unleashed it on.

He was grateful when Cas was kissing him again; it gave him an excuse to close his eyes because one, two, three, four, Cas declared a tongue war. Cas was squeezing his hands so hard now it was nearly painful, thrusting his hips in hard short bursts against Dean’s, and Cas broke the kiss just long enough to moan it again, just Dean’s name, _dammit_. If Dean wasn’t fucking _restrained_ right now, the sound of it might have been enough to make him just flip him over and start going at him himself.

But he recognized those whimpers, the near-frantic speed, and the way Cas was starting to arch against him. He finally managed to get his hands away from Cas’s brutal grip, leaving him to fist the sheets in his fingers, while Dean knotted his fingers in his hair again, drawing him close. Once he got his mouth on his neck he dropped his hands to stroke down his sides and then back up to rub his nipples with his thumbs. Cas was grunting now, over and over, his hands working the sheets like a damned cat; he was about done, and that was fine by Dean, so he tightened his thighs and gave Cas what he needed to hit paydirt: he slid one hand around to press right over the center of Cas’s chest and just breathed Cas’s name against his throat.

Okay, that worked a little _too_ well. Cas came, all right—with an agonized and _loud_ cry. Dammit, here he’d just been thinking about how he kept things quiet! Didn’t he know people could _hear_ him when he did that? He pressed two fingers against Cas’s mouth, shushing him. He got the message even though he was still shaking and thrusting against him, messily licking at Dean’s fingers, and somehow, the sounds he was making now, clearly struggling to stay quiet but unable to stop those breathy sobs… _Jesus._

Only when Cas finally stopped moving, his weight heavy and his head bowed to rest against Dean’s shoulder, did he even realize there was something really gross between his thighs now. Why did Cas make him forget important details like that when he was with him?

Well, he sure wasn’t forgetting it now. The longer Cas lay there like a slug, the more aware Dean became of the hot mess he’d gone and spewed all up between his legs. That was gonna get all over the sheets, too—probably already had. But not the blanket, at least, that had been turned down. He stared at the ceiling, and the more he thought about it, the more certain he was he could feel it oozing all over his balls, too, and he really, _really_ wanted to clean off. Preferably with his back to Cas.

But Cas wasn’t moving, and Dean didn’t quite have the heart to kick him off yet. After all, he was trying to be _nice_ to Cas (God knew why), and Dean sometimes wondered if Cas didn’t enjoy being all touchy-feely more than the actual messing around they did. The weirdo. So he didn’t move him. In fact, he did the opposite, wrapping his arms loosely around Cas until his fingers were folded together against the small of his back. But really, it wasn’t so bad. He closed his eyes, enjoying how Cas was sluggishly tilting his head up to press his face right up against Dean’s neck, like he almost always did when he was done, brushing his lips against his throat.

The way one of Cas’s hands had come up and was stroking softly up and down the other side of his neck; it was pleasant, and damn near hypnotic. Dean was vaguely appalled to realize that he could almost just _go to sleep_ like this, fuck clean-up and getting himself off and everything else. But that was a very big “almost”; he wasn’t that far gone. The only thing worse than hot spunk between his thighs was _cold_ spunk between his thighs, and that’s what it was starting to turn into down south. Cas was gonna have to move soon, whether he liked it or not.

But, until it was time for eviction, nothing was stopping Dean from caressing his back and pressing a kiss to his temple, and getting a sigh and kiss on his throat in return.

It wasn’t long before he felt Cas shifting, and while he moved to prop himself up on his elbows, staring down at Dean with drippy serenity, he still didn’t move to get off of him. Yeah, easy for him to be relaxed and not want to move, he wasn’t the one having to sit in someone else’s nut-butter. Dean was about to just tell him to get off—in no small part because a tiny voice was telling him to be just a little unsettled by that almost _speculative_ look Cas was giving him—but then Cas moved again, leaning forward to press one soft kiss against his mouth before finally climbing off of him and leaving Dean to sit up and go for the Kleenex.

Well, that had been the plan, anyway, right up until he felt a firm hand press against his chest and push him right back down onto the bed.

The action was so sudden and so out of nowhere and so _not done_ that Dean was too stunned to even protest, let alone resist. For a second, he stared blankly up at Cas, watching him calmly reaching for the box of tissue he kept by the bed, before finally mustering up any indignation. _What the hell?_ he thought, irritated (and a bit confused, he wasn’t denying that). _He gets to clean up but I don’t? What is he_ doing _?_

He wanted to ask just what was going on. But he couldn’t, because he suddenly realized just what Cas was doing as he pushed one of his knees between Dean’s, forcing his legs apart a little, and— _what the fuck_ —

He was seriously not cleaning Dean off himself. He was _not_ just making Dean lie there while he took care of everything for him.

But that was exactly what was happening, and he was indeed _making_ Dean sit back and take it, because the instant Dean tried to sit up again that insistent palm was back, pushing him against the mattress and pinning him, that maddening pressure on his thighs never stopping as Cas _slowly_ mopped him up, starting with his legs and working his way to his balls and his dick. He didn’t remove his hand, either; he kept him held down with his free hand and had moved so that now was sitting on his legs as he gently massaged his sack, making it so Dean couldn’t even protest, the son of a bitch. Fuck—why was he taking so long?! Wasn’t he done yet?! This wasn’t clean-up anymore by now, absolutely not, because his prick was achingly hard again due to his gentle rubbing that he _wouldn’t stop_!

Dean glared at Cas when he finally _did_ stop, watching as he idly gave himself a very perfunctory wipe-down, but he still wouldn’t _get the fuck off of him_. What was he _doing_? He was leaning back down to kiss him, that’s what he was doing, and—okay, now things were getting weird. Cas was grabbing his wrists. He felt stupid, just blinking up at Cas as his arms got pinioned by his sides, but what else could he do? He was afraid his voice would crack if he tried to talk.

But he just tugged softly on Dean’s lower lip as he pulled away, and he felt the fingers on his wrists tighten as Cas scooted down, licking and nibbling the whole way, and when he finally licked at Dean’s stomach, right above his prick, he looked up and met Dean’s eyes, and—oh, _shit_.

Dean recognized that look. He’d given it to Cas many times before, so he knew exactly what it was. And only then did he finally realize, with his hands restrained and his legs pinned, just how screwed he was because while Cas said nothing, Dean knew _precisely_ what he was thinking:

_You’re mine now._

* * *

The ceiling kept going in and out of focus. One minute it would be clear, and he could see every crack and dingy stain on it, and the next it’d be all blurry and dim as Dean’s eyes tried to close.

He was really only half-aware of the room right now. He was aware that he couldn’t feel his legs, at least. Or maybe he could, and it was just that he couldn’t _move_ them. Or better still, maybe he just didn’t want to. He didn’t know—the batteries in his brain were running a tad low at the moment.

He was also aware of Cas. Cas was next to him, his head propped up on his hand as he stared sappily down at Dean, stroking his collar bone and petting his ribs and touching his neck and just generally pawing at him. Dean really didn’t care. He didn’t care about _anything_ , and doubted he would ever care about anything _ever again_.

Dean still wasn’t quite sure what had just happened. He didn’t know how much time had passed from when Cas got that _evil_ glint in his eye to now, but Dean would not be surprised to find out it had been an hour or two. From the way his entire fucking _body_ was still throbbing from the force of his orgasm, it sure as hell felt like Cas had managed to draw it out for that long before he finally let Dean come.

And yes. He had. He’d _let_ him.

He’d sworn he’d never do it. It was one thing to accidentally (or “accidentally”) make Cas do it, but Dean was a different story. But he had. He’d done it.

Cas had pulled away and stopped cold for…he didn’t know. The sixth time? The _seventh_? He’d lost count after the fucking fourth. He’d wrenched his hands away from Cas’s restraining grip, where he’d been holding him down again and wouldn’t let Dean try and force him back down, but his desperation had given him a burst of strength and he’d grabbed Cas’s hair, nearly sobbing out the words because _he could not take it anymore_ , this was _sheer agony_ …and he’d done it.

He’d begged.

He had fucking _begged_ Cas to finish him.

He still didn’t know if that’s what Cas had been waiting for the whole time or if it had been completely unintentional—and he didn’t know if it was better or worse that he knew Cas was so fucking clueless that it was probably the second one—but the result was still the same. Cas had reduced _Dean_ to _mindless pleading_. But at least he’d finished him then—and Dean had come so hard it felt like he’d been hit by a fucking _train_ when that pressure that had been wound so tight he’d felt it all the way down his legs and up his back had _finally_ released, and he’d arched his hips up off the bed and thrust as deep as he could go and Cas had let him and he’d fucking _stayed there the whole time_ —

Truth be told, he was starting to wonder if maybe he hadn’t blacked out for a few seconds there when he finally came down Cas’s throat. Maybe that was why everything was so fuzzy.

Worst part of all, though, was the fact that he was too damn tired, too damn drained, too damn _everything_ to be indignant that Cas had forced him into making a concession. He’d already admitted that Cas was fucking good at giving head. See, that was kinda cheating, though—what he was was good at giving head to _Dean_. Cas was the person Dean had been… _with_ longest, and Cas had never been with anyone else, so, yeah, he had practice, and all of it was on him. So, they were tailor-made, just for Dean, and he knew it—so it wasn’t quite kosher to rank Cas too high on the absolute scale of these things.

But that right there. That one. He had to admit it.

He’d had lots of blowjobs from women. He’d had lots of _awesome_ blowjobs from women. But…goddammit. He had just received the best fucking blowjob in his _entire fucking life_ —from Cas. He didn’t think he’d ever recover.

 _Fuck you, Cas_ , he thought sluggishly.

Managing to lift his head a little, he glanced down to see that the sheets and blankets were already pulled up over him, and Cas was snuggled up right next to him, still idly petting him with that self-satisfied smirk on his face. When had he gotten under the blankets? He didn’t remember. Well, he was there now, and good thing, too—he didn’t think he could move enough to get under them otherwise. Shifting a little and moving an arm that felt like it weighed ten tons, he reached down to pull the sheet up a little higher and hissed a little when a small but sharp pain broke through the haze clouding his brain and gave him a little clarity. What the hell? He looked down at his hand and blinked at what he saw.

More teethmarks.

His first thought was to wonder just why the hell Cas had bitten him there. He really didn’t need to be getting _inventive_ about where he bit him now, especially when they were right there where everybody could see, dammit. But a few more fuzzy memories resurfaced as he stared at it, and then he realized what it was.

Right. He’d bitten his own hand when he came. He’d had to—otherwise, he would have fucking _screamed_.

_Seriously. Fuck you, Cas._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually, that blowjob was _so_ good that Dean was forced to make another concession in "[Coming to a Head](http://archiveofourown.org/works/956334/chapters/2011609)".


	4. Everybody Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, Dean— _they know_.

_June 29, 2020_

Sam was much more comfortable on the downstairs couch. It was just that much longer and deeper, the cushions that much softer, and the springs didn’t poke him in the back. So when he woke up that morning, he was content to just stay where he was for a while rather than get up to work out the kinks. When they were on the job, Sam couldn’t enjoy an early-morning lounge; he always felt like he had to get up and get back to work because lives hung in the balance.

In his defense, a lot of times they did. But after turning up no new jobs for two weeks, he and Dean had officially declared themselves on break. So here Sam was, sprawled out on the couch, half-dozing in the warm light of midmorning, and just enjoying his impromptu little vacation.

And he was not going to let his idiot brother spoil it for him.

He scowled, his post-sleep serenity fading. Trust Dean to find some way to ruin things for him. Despite the fact that Dean clearly thought he was being terribly sneaky, Sam and Bobby always knew when he’d been up to no good with Cas; it was written all over both their faces. But for all that, and for all of Dean’s exhibitionist escapades before embarking on this very, _very_ odd relationship of his, Sam had to admit that he’d only actually had to deal with something truly brain-scarring once—at least, until last night. Dean had apparently realized that it had been years since he’d last made Sam want to hollow out his own skull and fill up the empty space with bleach, and so set out to rectify that in the most spectacular way possible.

Thank God Dean had done his usual run-off-and-hide routine after a night with Cas—Sam could _not_ have handled looking at him that morning knowing—what he knew. Being around Cas, who had floated through the day in a shell-shocked daze, had been bad enough; having to deal with his _brother_ in full morning-after mode after—after _that_ would have been too much to take.

He’d managed to compose himself by the time Dean had slunk back to the house late in the afternoon, looking guiltier than Bernie Madoff with a hand in the cookie jar. Sam hadn’t said a word, and the fact that Dean could meet his eyes without suffering an epic shitfit told Sam that thankfully, he didn’t know that Sam had heard anything.

All the same, even though Bobby had still been up and puttering around in the library, Sam had turned in on the downstairs couch last night.

Quiet rustlings had been coming from the kitchen while Sam ruminated, and at the sound of a chair scraping across the floor, he tilted his head back to see Bobby stumping into the room. “Hey, Bobby,” he said lazily, dropping back down onto the cushions.

“Mornin’, Sam,” Bobby answered, and then hung a left, disappearing into the bathroom with a magazine tucked under his arm.

Sam sighed and looked at the ceiling; watching Bobby had caused his own bladder to give him a rather painful poke, so he collected himself and swung up to sit on the edge of the couch, and after a yawn and a stretch he rose up to his feet.

Bobby, obviously, had settled into the downstairs can for the long haul, so Sam just padded across the floor to the stairs and dragged his sorry ass up the steps so he could drain the lizard; a shower sounded pretty good, too.

As he made his way down the hall, he didn’t think anything of the open door to Cas’s room on the left; that was usually the all-clear, meaning that Dean was not in there—except how he was.

God, it was like being blindsided by a train wreck—Sam went stock-still where he stood and even though he _so_ didn’t want to, he totally looked.

_Crap._

He’d seen Dean asleep in Cas’s room once or twice before when the door hadn’t closed properly and a draft or the creaky old house settling or something caused it to swing open, but then they’d always just been _asleep_. He had never needed nor ever _wanted_ to see the two of them curled up together like they were now, in a way that was so obviously post-coital that they might as well have just had a neon sign over their heads, both of them bare from at least the waist up, Dean with his arms around Cas, who was all cuddled up against his chest, and—

Oh, shit—Cas was awake.

He was awake and he’d just spotted Sam. His head shot up and he got a spooked look on his face and he was opening his mouth and, no, no, _no_ , Sam didn’t want to hear anything!

He frantically raised his hands, waving him off even as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, his face burning. When it was clear that Cas wasn’t talking, Sam risked cracking open one eye to find Cas still watching him worriedly—he was completely unabashed, of course, but at least he wasn’t talking. Sam gave him a look that tried to be a smile of reassurance but he knew was more of a discomfited grimace and just put one finger to his lips, and with his other hand pointed to Dean. _Not a peep, Cas._ He didn’t want to hear a word he had to say—but even more importantly, he wanted him to keep quiet, lest, horror of horrors, Dean wake up and see him standing there.

Cas seemed to have come to a similar conclusion. He was chewing on his lip and flicked one slightly nervous look down at Dean—he’d probably find himself launched clean out of bed if Dean did wake up—before he looked back at Sam and nodded slightly in his direction. Sam just nodded back, screwing up his face and looking away as he leaned in and reached for the doorknob.

It was excruciatingly slow going; the hinges creaked, of course, and in the ringing silence it sounded like he was cranking “Thriller.” Sam cringed at the noise of it, just waiting with each passing second for Dean to snap awake and find him standing there in the doorway—and cue the absolute End of the World.

But he didn’t. Sam slowly let out the huge exhale he didn’t know he was holding as the door finally reached the end of its arc and stopped creaking, and with rush of relief he looked up.

Dean was still out, his sleeping face smooth and serene in the dim room, his arms still wrapped around Cas’s middle. Cas had settled back down again, his head tucked up under Dean’s chin, his eyes peacefully closed as his hand slowly stroked Dean’s bare chest. Dean shifted as he slept, just a little, his arms tightening around Cas, and he sighed, and Cas did too.

Smiling a little, Sam closed the door.


End file.
